When All Else Fails

After "When All Else Fails" by Lana Hechtman Ayers

I’m here to move this pen across this page to know what is inside of me.

What is inside of me:

A person worried and trying to control—her marriage, her job, her fitness, her finances, the uncertainty of the world.

A person who wants to much to be the kind of person whose brain never revolts, never convinces her she doesn’t want to do something, never stops her.

Instead I have a brain that has so much capacity for intelligence but so little capacity for relationships, for the intangible. I have a brain that wears itself out looking for what’s better. What can be fixed. Nails for my hammer. I have a brain that likes to plan, to formulate, to structure.

All the planning in the world doesn’t make anything happen, doesn’t make my brain want to do the thing that is on the calendar, on the to-do list, the next small step towards a bigger goal. I know the steps, but my brain likes to re-litigate every step of the plan in the moment.

Any load I’ve released by making the plan, by making the decision when I’m not second-guessing myself, is negated. I re-make the decision a million times trying to optimize in the moment, convincing myself I’ll feel like it later so I should do it later. That, actually, it makes more sense to shuffle everything around. And then second-guess that and berate myself for not just sticking to the original plan.

Of course, life happens, and plans change. But “life happens” and “brain being an asshole” are two very different things.

The quince in the backyard suddenly has leaves. The pear trees have buds, the camellia their first pink puffs. The calla lilies are dotting the otherwise green yard with their soft white unfurling. My nemesis oxalis spreads its buttery yellow blossoms in its quest to take over the world. All according to their internal programming. Not talking themselves out of it. Sticking to the plan they made when they were still a seed, a rhizome, knowing this plan would allow them to have the conditions they need to blossom.

They don’t think, you know, I really should wait, you know, if I waited until the summer, when everything else is dried out, then I’d be even more useful, more appreciated. I’d be even more beautiful.

Maybe it is difficult to emerge into the gray rainy air. But they know, they cannot grow without the water that winter brings. It is a simple plan based on only the most essential. The basics. Conditions may never be perfect, but waiting too long leads to impossible.